Paying Attention
by the ersatz diplomat
Summary: In which Nymphadora Tonks spikes the punch, is made fun of by her friends and learns a few things.


**Title:** Paying Attention  
**Fandom, Pairing: **Harry Potter, R/T (is there another?)  
**Word Count:** 2600ish  
**Prompt:** I believe it was _cake_ but it's been so long. :D  
**Warnings:** Mild-to-spicy swear words, mentions of lingerie and mostly-innocuous lingerie-related materials. Contains vague references to _The Dresden Files_ novels by Jim Butcher (I will slowly indoctrinate you all!), the _Dungeons and Dragons_ RPG, _Braveheart_ and a favorite XKCD comic of mine, none of which actually belong to me and since I'm not turning a profit, that's okay.  
**Rating:** PG/T  
******(Not a Good) Summary:** _'Hell's bells, if I wanted to play hide-and-seek all night, I would've stayed at work. At least there's some form of compensation involved. And it's likely I wouldn't be trekking like Livingstone through a jungle of overdone Victorian décor that hasn't been updated since…well. You get the idea.' _

**Author's Note: **This was supposed to be a birthday fic for my newest lj friend, the talented artist and just all-around super **solochan**, but I didn't make the deadline, lol. This is embarrassingly late, and has taken about eighteen different incarnations on my laptop. I picked the one I felt was best ( I do hope you trust my judgment ;D) and since I haven't written anything funny in a very, very long time, here we go with a fluffy little snark-fest.

* * *

"Hello?"

When you lose someone in Grimmauld Place, it can be difficult to find them again. Hell's bells, if I wanted to play hide-and-seek all night, I would've stayed at work. At least there's some form of compensation involved. And it's likely I wouldn't be trekking like Livingstone through a jungle of overdone Victorian décor that hasn't been updated since…well. You get the idea.

"Oi, Remus. Where'd you go?"

And…nothin'. There was the muffled sound of somebody laughing and the static of a badly-tuned wireless from the second floor, making Walburga's portrait grumble in its sleep. I guess it's sleeping. Either it's snoring or someone is taking a chainsaw to a box of rabid stoats.

Ugh. To think that we're actually related...

I had gone to my temporary room to get Lupin's birthday gift and when I got back downstairs the previously-occupied kitchen was vacant except for Kreacher. Half of the chocolate cake was left, some sandwiches and an almost-empty pitcher of punch that I'm pretty sure someone had spiked.

It might have been me.

Possibly. I won't confess. They'll never take me alive.

As far as parties go, it was nice enough, though I'd known that Remus hadn't wanted one at all. I think I was the only one who knew. Molly always has our best interests at heart, even if someone would rather spend his birthday doing absolutely nothing. And it doesn't matter how old (or not) you are, she treats you like one of her many, many children.

The aforementioned party started to devolve when a tipsy, giggling set of Weasley parents went home 'to get more ice cream.' They'd been gone for almost two hours and when I mentioned this to Sirius, he said we should all be ashamed of ourselves for being out-sexed by old people. Charlie and Bill got these strangled looks and we had to administer several glasses of punch to straighten them out.

This was a mistake on our part, us being Remus and me, because an inebriated Weasley is far more unstable than your standard sober Weasley, especially ones who like to ramble on about magical creatures or French girls. Though the drunker they got, the more attention was drawn away from him and the more legitimately merry Lupin seemed to be instead of carrying on with that forced cheerfulness.

From what I understand, birthdays aren't entirely agreeable for him, being the anniversary of the day he was bitten when he was just a boy and several other not-so-pleasant things. Fate can be one cruel bitch. And it can't be pink hair and pig snouts all the time, even for me, so I'll let the man have his birthday-mope and drunken-Weasley-schadenfreude if it makes him feel better.

Some old Hobgoblins' song about hinkypunks was playing, muffled, in one of the rooms on the first landing. A door at the end of the hall flew open and Charlie Weasley stepped out with a sharp blast of an accordion solo. He was shirtless, wearing two cone-shaped party hats as a pointy bra, doing something only vaguely recognizable as the _Thriller_ dance. His brother wasn't far behind, and dragged him back into the room. Walburga's portrait let out a snort that rattled the walls.

Like I said – unstable. They shouldn't be allowed anywhere near alcohol. Or popular music.

"What the bloody hell was that?"

I jumped in a very un-Auror-like manner. Remus and Sirius were standing behind me in another doorway, like they do, staring. I don't know what possesses them to both try to stand in the same doorway at once, but they always seem to manage it. They were a little glassy-eyed and the air was thick with cigar smoke. Or what I hoped was cigar smoke. With Sirius you never know and you refrain from asking for the sake of your sanity.

I pointed down the hall. "Did you see—"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't," Sirius said flatly.

"What has been seen cannot be unseen." Remus did a fair impression of Sibyll Trelawney, wide-eyed and wiggling his fingers. He stepped backward to let me pass and shut the door behind us. "I was wondering where those two had gone."

"Off their respective rockers, obviously. Um. Happy birthday and all," I said, holding up the gift-wrapped book. Almost everyone had gotten him books, which made me feel very original, but those had all been of a useful, non-fictional scholarly sort.

My gift was a hardback copy of the latest installment in a series of embarrassingly geeky fantasy-noir detective novels. We both read them. We quote seemingly-random-yet-appropriate lines to one other. It can be, on occasion, hilarious.

For example, after last night's meeting he leaned over and whispered (rather suggestively, I might add), _'Anyone who lets me ride their dinosaur can call me Carlos,'_ in my ear during Charlie's passionate one-sided discussion about Highland Hornbeasts, or whatever the hell they are. It's fair to say that knocking over a bottle of fifty year-old mead in a fit of hysterical laughter doesn't win you very many points with anyone. Except Lupin, who told me later the look on my face when he'd said it had been absolutely priceless.

"Wait a second there, Tonks," Sirius held up a hand. "Is this something he's not supposed to open in public?"

My face went hot. There had been an…incident…in which one person's Christmas present had been swapped with a Muggle girlfriend's hen party gift because a certain Auror had gone in for the bulk deal on sparkly silver gift bags that all looked alike. Oops.

"That mix-up at Christmas was completely unintentional."

"Of course it was," Remus said, looking sympathetic, but he's not to be trusted. "Hot pink lace is nice, but I'm afraid it wasn't the right size."

"Et tu, Moony?" I put my hand against my heart with a dramatic sigh. He faked an innocent smile that would've worked on me if I wasn't a clever, self-reliant witch of the twenty-first century who doesn't fall for tricks like that.

Honestly.

"He looks better in red, anyway," Sirius interrupted from the pianoforte that had been pressed into service as a makeshift bar. He had a crystal bottle of something amber in one hand and a matching glass in the other. He pulled out the stopper with a loud, hollow thunk.

"I never said I'd be the one wearing it—"

"That's a shame," I said with a wink, not wanting to be left out.

Sirius was giving me gleefully mutinous looks. "Though if memory serves, there was something else—"

Not so long ago, I would've been naïve enough to think they'd leave it at one good jibe about the Christmas Blunder, but taking the mickey is the national sport of 12 Grimmauld Place. And since Mad-Eye isn't here to run interference for me, I'm at the mercy of Lupin and Black, Inc.

Woe is me.

There was a hint of wickedness in Remus's smile as he said, "That, ah, battery-operated rubber duck, you mean?"

"Yes, that's right." My cousin raised an eyebrow, looking disturbingly like Mum. "I'd almost forgotten. Did you ever explain to Arthur what that the _function_ of that one was, Nymphadora?"

"Don't call me that." I made an unsuccessful stab at changing the subject. It was obvious I would never live this down. Sometimes an accidental gifting of lingerie is just an accidental gifting of lingerie, and doesn't mean anything on any sort of subconscious level.

Really.

_Seriously._

There was a beat of silence as I realized I said, _'Seriously,'_ aloud. They stared at me, unblinking, for a second or two.

"And don't forget about the dice," said Remus. Sirius clapped his hands together eagerly.

"Yes, the dice! I don't suppose your Muggle mate was going to play Dungeons and Dragons with those—"

"Though she _could_. That would be interesting, you know, 'Fondle the castle guard, it does six damage.'"

Remus mimed rolling dice, though the gesture could have been easily...misconstrued. My cousin roared with laughter.

Men. They never grow up, they just get taller.

"Dungeons and Dragons? Your Bad-Ass Credentials have just been officially revoked."

"I wasn't aware I had any credentials."

"Good, then you won't miss them. Open your present, and maybe I won't have to disembowel you with a salad fork." I sat down next to him on the sofa and chucked the book at him. Gently.

Okay, mostly gently.

"I'm going to ask Kingsley if salad fork disembowelment is proper Auror procedure for dealing with belligerent werewolves." Sirius mused. Remus shot him the darkest of black looks, then turned to me and put on a faint Scottish brogue.

"Ye can take my credentials, but yeh'll never take my freedom."

It took effort, but I didn't laugh. Much. He unwrapped the book, throwing the crumpled-up paper over his shoulder – it disappeared before it hit the ground. Wandless, non-verbal magic. The bastard. He was practically beaming at me when he saw the title.

"Oh! Have you read it yet?"

"Front to back. Stayed up all Monday night to finish it, and I've been dying to tell you what happens at the end."

We went on in that vein for a bit, talking about the book. Sirius rolled his eyes, his attention lost after he learned it was nothing deviant or subversive or lacy or (god forbid) battery-operated.

"This is the best present yet," Remus said, pulled me into a one-armed hug and then kissed me on the cheek. "Thank you, Nymphadora."

Wait…_what?_

Let's take another look at that, sports fans; Remus, the no-physical-contact-unless-absolutely-necessary man had just hugged me and followed it up with a kiss. It was on the cheek, yeah, but it was a kiss nonetheless. The spot still tingled, like being hit with a Cheering Charm that smelled slightly of gin and hadn't shaved in a day or two.

What left me thunderstruck was the fact that he'd actually done it. I had accidentally invaded his personal space plenty of times, it's what I do, but the constant I was judging this variable by was one handshake.

That happened _six months ago._

Was he drunk? Surely not. Was I? There was a strange, shivery sensation in my stomach that didn't feel like too many glasses of punch, but –

No.

Nymphadora Tonks takes names and kicks arse, she does not get wibbly over boys.

…Men.

Whatever.

This was unprecedented.

And now he was reading the blurb on the back cover of the book. My face was burning again – definitely turning red this time. Sirius was staring at me with a look like he'd worked out the answer to a riddle…or had been handed a large crate of explosives. He cleared his throat. I got up and attempted to make myself a drink. There was a large mirror hanging above the piano and I watched as he sat for a moment, then _ahem_-ed again. Louder, this time.

Remus was either ignoring him or didn't hear, now reading the teaser paragraph on the inside of the book's dust cover. Sirius slid to the edge of his chair and kicked him sharply in the ankle.

"What?" he hissed, getting a questioning look from Black, whose eyebrows are practically sentient, I swear. A shadow of confusion passed over his face, he tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed.

I'd seen them do this once before, trying to discuss something without actually talking. It was surprisingly effective. Too bad it didn't work on me; I've had professional training in Paying Attention.

Really. That was the name of the class.

Sirius nodded ever so slightly in my direction, wearing a shrewd smirk. I didn't see what happened after that – the glass I was holding slipped out of my fingers and hit the piano keys. The beastly old instrument let out a discordant clang and I Summoned the glass back to my hand before it hit the floor, but not before the contents spilled.

They both turned to stare at me.

"Sorry."

Sirius got up from his chair, gave the birthday boy a reproving look. He stared mildly back.

"I think I'll have another piece of cake." My cousin glared one more time and stomped out.

"What's his problem?" I asked.

"Something I did." He shrugged, not quite looking me in the eye, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Or didn't do. Hard to tell and I'm afraid to ask." For a moment he looked like he was about to say something else, but he shook his head and stared into the fireplace, coloring slightly.

Some part of my subconscious was still contemplating that kiss. I could feel it jumping to all sorts of conclusions as I watched him, noticing things I hadn't before. The easy smile that usually softened his sharp features had disappeared. His fingers tapped the arm of the chair with pent-up energy. There was a conflicted sort of somberness in the lines around his eyes, totally at odds with the man who had been sitting across from me five minutes ago.

It's not surprising. There are several versions of him, and I'm not sure which one I'm dealing with. I'm certain the one staring at me now isn't the one everyone else knows – responsible, even-keeled, rational and completely unreadable. He's as transparent as a brick wall most of the time, but occasionally that shield of inscrutability slips and there is someone entirely different behind it.

But I know as well as anyone — sometimes it's just easier to be somebody else.

I checked my watch and winced. Almost midnight. "I should go home."

"Let me walk you out." He got to his feet and helped me find my cloak – Kreacher liked to hide it. Neither of us said much until we reached the first floor hall.

"Thanks for staying for the party. I didn't realize it was so late."

"It's okay. I usually sleep through the first hour of work, anyway. Don't tell Kingsley," I said, rambling on in a half-whisper as we walked past the snoring paintings. "It was a decent party. Memorable. I learned a lot about dragon mating rituals and Bill's girlfriend's tongue trick. Not gonna forget that anytime soon."

"It _was_ very educational."

"So, all in all, not too terrible of an evening?"

"It was pretty good this year, actually." He took my cloak from where it was draped across my arm. "Not as bad as I thought it would be. Could have been a bit better, though."

"How's that?"

"I was, ah, going to go out for dinner."

"You could always go tomorrow night," I suggested, feeling a bizarre twinge of nervousness. Or something. He regarded me with an expression of mild apprehension.

"I was planning on it. But I'd like it if someone went with me."

"...Did you just ask me on a date?"

"I wasn't even going to hope you would read that into it. But I guess so. Somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"Maybe?" he said, flashing a hesitant smile.

"So is it, or isn't it? I need to know because your answer will directly affect my nervousness and attire."

Silently, he shook out the cloak and settled it on my shoulders, doing up the clasp and standing very close. The corner of his mouth was twitching, and a long minute passed before he spoke again, rubbing a hand over his face and then back through his hair.

"Let's start from the top. Dinner – go with me, and we'll work out what it is and isn't as it's happening, what do you think?"

"Sounds complicated."

"I'm sure you can handle it."

"Oh, I _know_ I can handle it," I said, winking. He unlocked the front door and held it open as I walked out onto the steps.

"I don't doubt that one bit. Given the opportunity, though, I'd like to see you prove it. Goodnight, Nymphadora."

Remus grinned and shut the door in my face. I glared at the snakey door-knocker before Disapparating, feeling swamped by staircase wit. He who laughs last may laugh best, yeah, but they never mention the part where he gets his arse kicked by a girl.

* * *

R&R?


End file.
